


This I Swear

by kuiske



Category: The Hobbit (Jackson Movies), The Hobbit - All Media Types, The Hobbit - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Angst, Hallucinations, Hurt/Comfort, In-universe racism, M/M, Mild Sexual Content, Panic Attacks, Swearing, dworin - Freeform
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-09-21
Updated: 2016-02-18
Packaged: 2018-04-22 15:49:00
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 3
Words: 6,747
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4841225
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kuiske/pseuds/kuiske
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Dwalin is quite possibly the only person in the world who knows that Thorin Oakenshield is terrified of having his hands restrained. </p><p>He is definitely the only member of the Company who understands that their leader is on the verge of panic when the Mirkwood elves take them captive and bind their hands.</p><p>(An independent sequel to <b>You Don't Have to Tell Me Why</b>)</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Prologue

**Author's Note:**

> I'm not making money with this. All rights to their respective owners.

”I’m sorry,” Thorin gasped. His words sounded slurred and foreign, he struggled to breathe as if all air had been knocked out of him. “I’m sorry, I can’t- I can’t-“

Dwalin was blinking at him in dazed confusion. He was lying on his back propped up against pillows, very visibly aroused and clearly trying to figure out what had just happened. Thorin fought to even out his breathing. He could feel cold sweat beading on his neck and face and he was distantly ashamed to see his hand was shaking visibly when he laid it on Dwalin’s hip aiming for some approximation of calmness. 

“I’m- Let- let me just get you off-“

“For _fuck’s sake_ -“ Dwalin's disorientation was short-lived and whatever he was going to say he cut off with a frustrated grunt as he sat up and pushed Thorin away. 

Decades of never being safe had ingrained some things so deep they were hard to shake even in private. Even now, even in bed with his best friend and lover, Thorin’s first instinct was to purge away all signs of vulnerability. He scrambled off the bed and might have left the room slamming the door behind him had it not been the middle of the night and had he been wearing any clothes. As it were, he drew himself to his full height back rigidly straight and remained where he was, staring at the glowing embers in the fireplace. He clenched his hands to fists until his knuckles were shining white to conceal the fact that he couldn’t keep his fingers from trembling.

“It’s noth-“

“ _Like hell it’s nothing!_ ” Dwalin snarled voice tight with anger.

“Well it should be!” Thorin spat through gritted teeth. “It’s _stupid_ , it’s a _weakness_ , it’s-“ Choking up in the middle of describing his own inadequacies he fell silent, utterly disgusted with himself. 

Thorin didn’t know what it was, in truth. There were great many things he didn’t trust most people with, but Dwalin he trusted with all he had. He’d rest his life in his hands without a second thought, and that of his sister’s and nephews’ besides; he felt it should’ve made a difference. Yet the mindless terror rising to strangle him at the mere thought of having his hands restrained was something that ran deeper than trust and reason both, and he hated it with a passion. There was a surplus of matters beyond his control in his life, but this shouldn’t have been one of them. He should’ve been able to shove aside simple inane fear. 

Thorin could hear Dwalin swearing under his breath and getting on his feet. A moment later he felt his hand settle tentatively on his waist. Thorin dearly wanted to shake him off. He shouldn’t have _needed_ any comfort, but he didn’t quite have it in him to reject the touch. Every muscle tense, he reluctantly allowed himself to be pulled into a one-armed embrace. 

Dwalin knew, _of course_ he knew, though Thorin had never said a word about this. Neither of them was particularly comfortable discussing whatever cracks they carried in their armour, and Thorin didn’t understand this one well enough to explain even if he’d wanted to. Dwalin hadn’t asked either, he’d simply adjusted to it as if he were lifting his axe to block a blow Thorin couldn’t check himself. Like it was the easiest thing in the world and never an issue at all. When he felt Dwalin’s free hand wipe sweat off his brow and stroke his damp hair he closed his eyes and instinctively leaned in to the touch, relaxing a little. The naked body he was being held against was warm and solid, both more heavily muscled and more scarred than his own, and the last safe place left in his world. 

For a long while neither of them spoke. Then Dwalin exhaled heavily and shifted a little so that they were almost facing each other.

“Thorin, I’m _sorry_. I'd _never_ have asked you to do that if I’d thought- Mahal, you could’ve _said_ something!”

To be pinned down by the wrists was the last thing Thorin would’ve considered either fun or arousing, which was why he’d been more than surprised when Dwalin had asked him to do exactly that for bed-play. But as confusing as the request had been, Thorin hadn’t seen cause to refuse. After all, just because he could never enjoy it done to him didn’t mean he couldn’t do it for Dwalin. And he could do it. Had done it. Had held him down and kissed him hesitantly at first, asking for his body to confirm the words he’d spoken, then with increasing hunger until they were both dizzy with arousal, their cocks trapped between their bodies hard and aching to be touched. Right until he’d raked his teeth against Dwalin’s throat. Moaning low with pleasure, his body arching beneath him, Dwalin had struggled to yank his hands free. Feeling much like he’d fallen through ice to freezing water Thorin had let go of him and thrown himself back mind clouding with sudden panic. Because no, he couldn’t do this, he couldn’t, he couldn’t possibly do _this_ to Dwalin, he couldn’t…

Thorin concentrated on breathing through his nose and fixed his eyes on the floor, refusing to meet Dwalin’s eyes. Whether his expression was that of disgust, disappointment or concern, he wasn’t sure he could take it now. He felt his mouth twisting to a mirthless smile.

“I didn’t think- There’s _no reason_ I couldn’t do that, no reason at all, it’s a-“

“If you say ‘weakness’, I’m going to punch you.”

“Do go ahead, then, because that’s exactly what it is, and a liability besides. As if we needed _more_. I can’t imagine what our enemies would do if they found out they could take down the King of the line of Durin by _holding his hands_.”

Dwalin growled something unintelligible that sounded suspiciously like 'over-dramatic bastard' and tilted Thorin’s chin up. There was nothing of either disgust or pity on his face.

“It won’t make one fucking difference, because I will kill every fucking bastard who even _thinks_ of trying!” he vowed eyes blazing with fury.

“That how I should deal with my problems, is it?” Thorin couldn’t shake bitterness from his voice. “Stand back like some helpless mannish princeling and let you handle it?”

“ _Or_ you could put a sword through your problems yourself, but there’s oaths I’ve sworn to you, and come to think of it they weren’t actually too different.”

 _I’ll live by your side until I fall from your side. I’ll defend you. Fight for you. Die for you._ A number of dwarves would’ve probably keeled over in faint if Dwalin had tried to slip expletives in his formal oaths of fealty, but Thorin had to admit there were certain similarities. He let out a small huff of amusement, which Dwalin took as an agreement.

“See? It’s no problem, you bloody royal moron, it’s my sworn duty and an honest pleasure besides. Speaking of which…” Dwalin waggled his eyebrows and rubbed his crotch suggestively against Thorin’s thigh.

Thorin couldn’t help it. He burst out laughing. 

“You’re an arse,” he grumbled and gave him a hard shove.

Dwalin chose to forego any answer. He made a show out of falling dramatically backwards on their bed and hauled Thorin down with him. It was fortunate they slept on a den of furs and blankets in an alcove carved directly to the rock, because a wooden bedframe would certainly not have survived two grown dwarves collapsing on it in a tangle of limbs. Dwalin was grinning openly when Thorin - not quite managing to bite back a smile himself - cursed him and elbowed him in the ribs. 

“I don’t think I’m up for sex tonight,” Thorin muttered apologetically. Lewd joking aside, Dwalin didn’t give any indication of wanting to pick up from where they’d left, but he felt like he needed to say it regardless.

“Be surprised if you were,” Dwalin drew a blanket haphazardly over them both and was silent for a moment, then sniggered suddenly like a dwarfling of thirty. “That was a _pun_ , Thorin.”

“Huh? No, what was?”

“ **Up** for sex,”

Thorin groaned and seriously considered all the possible benefits of kicking Dwalin on the floor. 

“Awful. _Awful_.”

“Liar. You know you keep me around for my sense of humour.”

“ _Despite_.”

Dwalin chuckled but didn’t carry on teasing him. Thorin was still more shaken than he would’ve cared to admit, but he didn’t bother to delude himself into thinking it went unnoticed. The distinct lack of snoring even an hour later meant Dwalin was very much awake, though he usually dropped off to sleep in mere moments. As if sensing his thoughts Dwalin found his hand in the dark and squeezed it to indicate that he had every intention of _staying_ awake for as long as necessary. And if there was the smallest tinge of disquiet in the way he pressed his entire body close, Thorin wasn’t going to comment on it.

There had been other oaths besides those spoken aloud, but no less binding for being wordless. Sworn time after time again by desperate people gagging on blood and ash and grief with hands clawing to gather near the scattered remains of family and friends. 

_I’m here, I promise. I’m not losing you too. I’ve got you._


	2. I

”Thorin! Kill it”

Dwalin didn’t need to see the flash of Thorin’s sword in the sickly unlight that passed for a midday to know the spider was dead. One dead, two, three, a dozen, but more kept coming from the depths of this hellish nightmare of a forest. Dwalin sank Grasper deep into a spider’s head and it twisted the axe from his hand screeching as it died and then another one was upon him and he had no weapon; Ori had his hammer and he’d tossed Keeper to Bombur who’d lost his arms when he fell into the river. Weapon or no weapon made little difference. Snarling like a mad thing he sank his fist into the spider instead of his axe, again and again and again and _again_ in a frenzy of violence, until its skull gave way and his fist and half of his arm sank deep into the misshapen head and came out dripping with what passed for its blood and brains.

There was no time to catch his breath, no time to wonder whether the spiders’ insides were as poisonous as their bite. Dwalin yanked Grasper free and clove the next spider near in half in a single fluid movement, then the next one, and the next after that. He was dizzy from venom and hunger and the suffocating miasma that hung upon the woods like a curse and had him seeing things that weren’t there. A time or two he almost fell over, thrown out of balance when a spider he sought to kill wasn’t there. His axe met air instead of flesh and he couldn’t tell if it was his depth perception that was wrong or if the forest wanted them dead badly enough to have them battle imaginary spiders alongside with the live ones.

It was a mad, chaotic dash for their lives, running while fighting while running, and there was little time to keep an eye on their companions though they needed each other to have any hope of survival at all. Out of his peripheral vision he could see dark hair heavy with sweat and cobwebs catch in the wind and swing with the force of movement; Thorin was right behind him. He could see Balin with the lads to his right and little Ori fought like a berserker with no apparent care for his own safety. Dori took care twice as much to make up for it, as always, he grabbed a spider by a leg before it could reach his little brother and swung it against a tree with all his strength. The spider exploded in a spray of yellowish viscera and Dwalin turned his attention back to the business, leaping forward to engage two spiders descending from a tree to block their path. He could see a third one coming from his left, but it was Thorin’s to kill so he paid it no mind. This was a tactic they’d used countless of times before: Dwalin was the fist smashing open a path for them and Thorin took care of the flank he left vulnerable rushing into the attack. Grasper split open a bloated belly and–

Something hit him in the back and knocked him over hard enough to punch all air out of his lungs.

Dwalin nearly gagged on a mouthful of rotting leaves and spat them out all over his beard, but there was little else he could do. He was pinned down by the heavy weight of the spider that was climbing on top of him with a hiss that sounded like delight. No matter how ferociously he struggled he couldn’t throw the beast off and there was another one in front of him that didn’t seem dismayed when he cut off a piece of its leg, his movements were too badly hindered to cause much damage to it. He couldn’t even draw enough breath to call for help, at least not loudly enough to have any hope of being heard amongst the clangour of screeches, bellows and curses filling the air. Dwalin covered his eyes with his arm to protect them from the spider that tried to claw out his face and he could feel a set of sharp pincers tearing at his furs and armour to get through to his vulnerable neck. 

The spider on his back burst open with the force of the blow it received and coated him from head to toe with its slimy insides. Dwalin couldn’t have cared less, he accepted the hand helping him on to his feet with gratitude and together they dealt with the spider that had been attacking his front. Only it wasn’t Thorin that had come to his aid, it was Glóin, and never had there been a clearer sign of how deep trouble they were in that his little cousin didn’t take time to favour him with an eye-roll or a smug look for needing to be so saved. He simply gave him a curt nod before running forward to help Óin and Bifur. And it seemed Thorin had _finally_ noticed Dwalin had been in severe trouble only a moment ago. He touched his shoulder briefly in a reassuring gesture that was as familiar and natural as breathing. 

Dwalin was nearly overcome by a violent surge of seething rage. He’d nearly died like an _idiot_ by turning his back to a spider, because he’d trusted Thorin to take notice and _mind the damn flank_. 

“For **fuck’s sake** , would it _kill_ you to fucking _pay attention_?!” Dwalin snarled, throwing him a vicious glare – but as he turned he couldn’t see Thorin there. 

From the corner of his eye he caught a glimpse of a blue coat and a flash of sword and a few strands of dark curls flying in the wind, but nothing more. It didn’t make any sense. He had been close enough to touch mere seconds ago and Dwalin could _feel_ his presence right behind him, but no matter how far he turned to look, even as he spun around completely Thorin kept fleeing him, always dancing right on the edge of his line of vision. 

Thorin laughed. 

The sound was deep and rich and one Dwalin cherished above all the music in the world and it was enough to have his blood freeze in his veins. None of them had laughed since they’d entered the forest, Thorin least of all, but he was laughing now and it was wrong, wrong, _wrong_. It came to him then with a sudden rush of terrible dread that the wind was wrong as well. 

There _was_ no wind. 

There hadn’t been enough wind to even move a blade of grass for days on end now. 

In a fit of desperation Dwalin reached behind him to where all his senses told him Thorin should be. His hand that should’ve met furs and armour touched only empty air and as it did the image of Thorin shimmered and melted away like mist in sunlight. The laughter still ringing in his ears took a sharp mocking edge before it corroded into a wet rattle and died away completely.

Thorin wasn’t there.

Like as not Dwalin would have died in the agonisingly long seconds that followed, had fighting not been an instinct for him that required little thought. He stopped paying attention to the spiders. He killed the ones crossing his path without ever really noticing them, scanning the fighting group of dwarves with a growing sense of panic. He couldn’t see Thorin anywhere and when he called out – _screamed_ out his name there was no answer.

Thorin wasn’t there.

“Balin!” 

Dwalin was suddenly decades younger; he was tasting ash and he didn’t know where Thorin was and he ran to his big brother’s side as much by reflex as he swung his axe to take off a spider’s head. He grabbed Balin by the shoulder and nearly got himself killed putting himself on the path of his sword in doing so, but all the sharp rebukes in the world couldn’t have stopped him. Dwalin had to know, he _had to know_ Balin was real and wouldn’t simply vanish as soon as he tried to touch him.

“Balin, where’s Thorin?” Dwalin asked him, hopelessly wishing for Balin to somehow spot Thorin and point him out to him all the while shaking his head at his idiotic little brother. 

“He was with you!” Kíli shouted over his shoulder.

It wasn’t an accusation, just a fact Kíli probably thought helpful. Even half-starving the lad fought with a careless grin like one certain that nothing could ever hurt him, like it was all going to be all right in the end. It wasn’t an accusation, but it felt like one, because _yes, he was with me, he was right behind me and I don’t know where he is, I don’t know where I lost him, I never noticed, I lost him and I **never noticed**_. Balin had no need for explanations. He read the severity of the situation from a single glance at Dwalin’s face and spun around to scan the area wearing an uncommon expression of naked worry. Fíli was quicker than Kíli to catch on. Out of the pair of them he was always the one more likely to worry, more likely to _think_ when he wasn’t busy being young and thoughtless.

“Uncle!” Fíli cried, never masking the distress in his voice.

It was a rare mistake. Usually Fíli and Kíli called Thorin by his name in public, it had been one of the conditions for them to be allowed on the Quest. They were to be young warriors sworn to their King, Dís had stressed to them, not dwarflings tailing after their uncle. There was no shame in being young, but the journey was not for children and advertising their relationship with Thorin where outsiders could hear was beyond foolish and put them to an unnecessary risk besides. A rare mistake was Fíli calling for his uncle mid-combat, and proof Thorin wasn’t anywhere where he could hear him or then not capable of answering. He might have snapped at Fíli to remember himself after a slip like that, but he’d never had it in him to ignore either of the lads needing him.

“Listen up! **Listen!** Has anyone seen Thorin?!” Dwalin bellowed loud enough to be heard even through the chaotic serial ambush they were caught in. 

“He’s-“ Óin began to yell back, but whatever he was about to say dissolved to a furious stream of curses when he pointed somewhere to his left and didn’t find anyone there. 

It took some more shouting on Dwalin’s part, but once the message got through to all the members of the Company Óin wasn’t alone in swearing. Every dwarf could’ve sworn Thorin had been with them just a moment ago, but no one could recall when they’d last seen him for certain. They needed to find him, it went without saying. They all might well die looking for him, but it would be unthinkable to just abandon him lost in the forest forever without a soul ever knowing what became of him. Thorin was their leader, family to most of them and the hope of this Quest besides, with the map and the key and the will driving them onwards. They had to go back for him. It was a small and grim mercy that it was impossible to get lost from the path they now had to follow, strewn as it was with spider carcasses.

Dwalin wasn’t exactly used to being the one in command, but he had a better battle-field voice than Balin and it would’ve been monstrously unfair to ask Fíli to lead when he looked half-way ready to come undone with worry and fear for Thorin as it was. Not that Dwalin was feeling particularly calm. While only moments ago he could’ve sworn he’d had Thorin within touching distance the whole time, now his _absence_ was a tangible dark nothingness right next to him. For an eternity between two heartbeats his thoughts caught up with him and the rising panic was enough to paralyze. _He could be dead already. Thorin could be dead, he could be **dead** , Maker, please not him, please, he’s my best friend, my heart, my-_

Dwalin crushed down his emotions without mercy. _He’s your King. That is all. Find him, soldier_.

And it turned out Thorin wasn't the only one missing.

“Where Bilbo?!” Bofur yelled suddenly voice wrought with alarm.

Their burglar was tiny and quiet, so as such him being out of their sight wasn't a cause for much worry. It was a common occurrence that he’d sneak up on one of them without any apparent effort and go unnoticed until he spoke up, but now he wasn’t answering his name either nor emerging seemingly out of thin air to complain that he didn’t _sneak_ just because he didn’t stomp around wearing boots. They all entertained a tiny speck of hope that maybe Thorin and Bilbo were at least lost together. Nobody mentioned it, but everyone knew that unless he was with Thorin there wasn’t much of a chance of finding him alive. They were out of food in a forest full of horrors, and what little water they had left was in dwarven water-skins since Bilbo had shrugged off his pack to climb up a tree to search for the sun. The goblin tunnels had shown that the hobbit was luckier than Nori playing with his own set of dice, but immortal he was not and no amount of luck could hold forever against odds such as these. 

It had been a hard fight for them to escape the spiders’ nest. Doubling back towards it meant that they had to fight much harder still for every step. 

Half the Company were veterans of Azanulbizar and knew what a losing fight tasted like; this one was getting there fairly quickly. Fíli and Kíli were visibly frantic with worry, all caution and finesse forgotten they carved open a bloody path for themselves like dwarves possessed. Bifur nearly fell down a cliff that cut through the forest, tripping on vines that curled around his feet as if they had a malicious will of their own and Ori was wielding two of Nori’s knives now, he’d passed Dwalin’s hammer to Dori who still had the strength to swing it. Dwalin could feel his arms growing numb with exhaustion, his movements had turned mechanical and a fraction too slow already. Grasper was slightly heavier than it should’ve been and every spider on his way had a heartbeat longer to live, then two, then five. He clenched his jaw and pressed on, looking for any signs of Thorin amidst the slaughter and finding none. 

Something zoomed past his ear nearly close enough to draw blood and that was all the warning they got before the spiders everywhere around them suddenly faltered and died in a hail of arrows.

Appearing out of nowhere as though a new breed of unnaturally pale, skinny and sharp-featured spiders the trees were suddenly swarming with elves; jumping down from branches with faces like masks that betrayed no emotion but with weapons pointed at the Company ready and willing to kill.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Tbh this feels more like a second prologue than the 1st chapter, but ehhh I had to cut it somewhere and it felt anticlimactic to reveal what happened to Thorin right away...


	3. II

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I feel like this chapter should have a warning, but I'm not sure what kind. Gaslighting asshole of a forest?

It happened so fast he never had time to react.

Dwalin sent a maimed spider right on his path, Orcrist bit into the cursed flesh and Thorin felt an absurd desire to yell back a joke, because _what_ in Durin’s name was Dwalin thinking he might do with the spider that he felt he had to emphatically instruct him to kill it? He recognised dimly that the joke was an exceptionally poor one and shook off the urge to voice it. There was nothing remotely amusing about their situation; they needed rest and they needed food, and there was neither to be had in their immediate future. It was only a matter of time before some of them got wounded and had to be carried, and from there it was only a short step to death for them all. 

Thorin split open a spider’s skull and tried to force himself to concentrate. He knew all too well that losing focus in combat was lethal, but he couldn’t quite shake off the fog slowing down his mind. The familiar light-headedness of hunger blended in with the cloying sense of decay and deception that hung about the forest like a curse, and the spider venom was still burning its way through his veins, slowing him down. Thorin fought on, but felt oddly distant from the battle. His voice yelling out commands might have belonged to someone else and he barely recognised his own hand reaching out to steady Óin on his feet when he stumbled and nearly fell. He slaughtered the spiders threatening their left flank with deceptive ease; his body moved on instinct just as it had been trained to do for decades, but he couldn’t go on like this for much longer. It was dangerous, he had to _think_.

Thorin spun around and sliced a spider in half, and in passing spared a brief smile at Fíli who killed two of the monsters with a single fluid movement, one sword stabbing backwards and the other up and forwards. Fíli noticed him looking and pulled his swords free with far more flourish and a wider grin than would’ve been strictly speaking called for, but Thorin didn’t have the heart to reprimand him for showing off. At least the lad still kept his spirits up. Thorin lagged behind for a few steps and swerved left to meet a pair of spiders descending from trees that grew on the edge of the steep cliff cutting through the woods. He jumped on a slanting tree trunk aiming a deadly upwards slash at the nearest spider’s exposed underbelly, and his leg crashed through the bark and sank into the tree as if it were water. Before he knew what was happening he was thrown out of balance and falling, leg still trapped in the tree that broke off its roots with barely a crack and took him down with it.

He never even had time to scream. 

*

Thorin came to his senses slowly and groaning in pain without quite realising it, and then with a sudden jolt of terror as he felt his hand brush against a set of sharp pincers. Only half conscious he yanked his dagger out on pure reflex and punched it into the spider’s body as deep as he could, a dozen times at least spraying thick pale viscera everywhere around him in a panicked frenzy - until he realised the spider wasn’t screeching or struggling or moving at all. It was already dead, cloven almost clean in half and he was tearing apart a corpse. Thorin allowed himself a brief moment to close his eyes and draw a deep steadying breath before he pulled his dagger free and shoved the mutilated carcass aside in disgust. 

Even though the tree that had dragged him over the cliff had practically exploded upon hitting the ground his leg was still caught in what was left of the hollow husk of it. Thorin kicked himself free with little effort and stood up slowly, testing his limbs and feeling around his body for injuries. The almost liquid remnants of the tree had splattered on the fallen leaves like blood from a mortal wound and he glared at them seething with helpless rage. The tree had _looked_ as healthy as any in the forest and healthier than most – it had even had greenish leaves seemingly untouched by autumn or disease – but beneath the bark holding it together there had been nothing but black slimy decay stinking of death. Completely rotten through. He might have known and he should’ve known better than to rely on anything he saw in these woods.

Thorin prodded his head gingerly. He’d been knocked out by the impact, very briefly he hoped, but without the Sun it was impossible to tell the time. He was covered from head to toe in bruises, gore and cobwebs, but aside from that he judged himself to be unhurt. 

He was also completely alone. 

“Dwalin!” Thorin yelled as loud as he could but the forest swallowed up his voice and he heard no answer. 

No answer. 

No bellows or curses, no sounds of weapons tearing flesh, not even the screeches of spiders. 

Nothing at all. 

Thorin caught himself mouthing Fíli and Kíli’s names, but he knew trying to call out to them would be utterly pointless. If he couldn’t hear any of them they certainly wouldn’t be able to hear him no matter what he did. Besides he wasn’t sure whether he could risk any more shouting, if worst came to worst he’d alert a new herd of spiders of his whereabouts. Orcrist lay mere inches from the spot he himself had fallen to and he bent down to pick it up, fighting hard to beat down rapidly rising panic. He was _alone_ as he’d only rarely been in his entire life; he didn’t have the faintest idea where the others were nor did they know where he was, if they’d noticed him missing at all. If they were even still alive. His fingers tightened around the sword hilt and he forced himself to even out his ragged breathing and _focus_. He missed Dwalin’s presence beside him like he would’ve missed his own beating heart, but the steel in his hand would have to be enough of a comfort for now. 

The cliff he had fallen from rose above him and Thorin eyed it with distaste. It obviously wasn’t high enough to kill or maim a dwarf and normally he could’ve scaled it with little trouble, but the rock felt _wrong_ all over and it made him nervous in a way even the rest of the forest hadn’t managed to. Damp and slimy to touch for sure, flecked with moss and fungi he had no names for, but far from being simply foreign the stone felt _dead_ and left to rot with gnarled roots digging into it like maggots into a corpse. Dead, if stone could be said to die, not unlike a limb severed off from the body that ran deep beneath the Earth to connect all Mountains as one. It was made brittle as well, by plant or spell or simply by time, for when he grasped it to test a handhold it broke off and crumbled in his hand. The stone would never support his weight. 

Thorin considered his options. Even in the perpetual late twilight he could see something like a narrow trail running underneath the cliff and vanishing into the deep shadows only a few paces away from him. He could follow the path and hope it’d lead him within a shouting distance of the others or he could stay where he was and hope that his friends would find him before anything else did. Provided that they were still looking for him. Thorin couldn’t quite shake off the sneaking suspicion that he might have been unconscious for far longer than he’d initially thought; perhaps long enough that the others had passed him by and finally given up the search when he couldn’t be found. Something very cold settled inside him with the thought of having been left for dead, but he pushed it aside the best he could. It would’ve been the right call to make in their situation. A hard one too. He was sure Dwalin wouldn’t get the boys killed for the sake of a futile search for him, but he had a feeling it would’ve fallen to Balin to actually speak the words. 

Thorin could feel the first sparks of an oncoming headache and rubbed his temples irritably. The spiders had vanished as if they’d never been, but he could sense a thousand invisible eyes watching him from the dark and couldn’t find relief in their absence. More than simply watched, he could feel himself being _hated_ by something darker and more twisted and hostile than even the monsters living among the trees. Mirkwood itself had wanted them all dead from the start. He knew that whatever he chose his chances of survival weren’t great; the forest was more likely to get its wish by the minute. In the end his nerves decided for him. He simply couldn’t bear to stay still and wait for someone else to decide his fate. Thorin prayed the Company hadn’t strayed too far away from the cliff and set down the path at a brisk jog. 

The forest closed in everywhere around him and pressed against him with all the weight of the long years it had waited for something to disturb its peace. 

Soon enough he was forced to slow down into a walk and then barely into a crawl. The trees grew so close to the stone that often he had to push himself through narrow spaces between bark and rock and climb over roots as tall as himself to advance at all. Branches like sharp claws snagged in his hair and clothes and tore at his face, and more than once he had to take a sword to the leather-tough vines trying to wrap themselves around his throat. It looked to him like there was a clearer path only a short distance away but he didn’t dare risk taking it. 

Everything about an easier way felt like a trap. 

His sense of time and distance bled away along with his strength but he struggled onwards and tried no to despair. He knew he was moving to the right direction, he knew it, and still there was an insistent voice in his head, whispering that he’d chosen the wrong way and every step he took was one closer to certain death. 

*

Thorin stumbled and fell and felt his lip split open.

He stared listlessly at the few droplets of fresh blood gleaming wet and dark on the forest floor. Not much unlike the liquid disease that had burst out from the dead tree. Hardly different at all. He brought a hand to his stinging lip. His own blood, he realised, tasting iron.

He should get up and keep moving forwards, he needed to find… find someone, lost in the woods, he had to find- 

_Are you here, Ada?_

_Are you still waiting for me to find you?_

But no, that couldn’t be, he couldn’t find him anymore. The Pale Orc’s taunts echoed in his head, he’d failed in that too. 

He had to get up and find the others, and he could’ve wept with exhaustion at the mere thought. He wished in vain for familiar hands to help him stand up again and failed in biting back a plea, but there was no one around to hear the choked up whimper tearing from his throat. 

Fragile stone splintered beneath his fingernails as he clawed himself back on his feet on his own. 

* 

The trees dwindled without a warning and the landscape opened before him into a gentle downwards slope of green grass swaying in the wind. It lead down into a wide valley dotted with apple, pear and plum trees, all heavy with fruit. The air was lighter here and easier to breathe; it carried the sounds of laughter chiming like pure silver bells in the distance, and the scents of food as well, sweet baked bread and sweeter fruit. The sweetest of all were the honey-thick whispers that called for him to follow, down into the valley where hundreds of bright lights twinkled between the trees. There would be food for him there, and drink, and he should go now and rest for a while, far far away from the treacherous forest and the poisonous stone and all the cares of the world. 

_Come. Come down and rest. Come down and sleep._

He was feeling drowsy and he couldn’t quite recall why he should refuse, though something at the back of his mind insisted that he do so. He took a hesitant step towards the valley, and another, and a few more still. Then he stopped abruptly.

_I don’t think I want to_ , he protested weakly.

He reached out to his side seeking support, but there was no one there. He whirled around in surprise, staggered, and felt his knees hit the ground. There should’ve been someone there. Names eluded him, his own, everyone’s, and trying to hold on to the faces in his memory was harder than holding water in his hands, but he was _sure_ there should’ve been someone by his side. Echoes of touches were more solid than thoughts; in desperation he latched on to the scattered ghosts of tiny fists clutching at his braids. To arms holding him tight against a broad and scarred chest, and to bodies colliding into him, tackling him down. To huge, calloused hands ruffling his hair and picking him up so that he could bury his face in a thick grey beard. 

He belonged to the chorus of laughing voices and a fading memory of green stone that sang with a voice of gold. 

He shook his head in refusal, more adamant this time. 

_No. I don’t want to. This isn’t my place._

_But it could be_ , the whispers grew sweeter, heavier, darker. _None of that was ever real, you know, and you could belong right here._

It felt like a lie, but he had no way to be sure. He was falling deep into a heavy fog that drowned out everything that wasn’t soft voices singing, calling, pulling him deeper still. The last brush of lips against his skin melted away, and he was left alone and without a memory of why he shouldn’t stop fighting and just sleep. 

He was _so_ tired. 

Would it really be so bad to curl up beneath the apple trees and rest, just for a little while, just for a brief forever after? 

Would it be so bad, never to be found? 

He could let go and forget he was ever a King. He could let go and forget he ever was at all. 

He could let the blanket of falling leaves from countless autumns to come cover him while the never-fading grass beneath him rocked him slowly to sleep for all of eternity. If he but let his soul seep into the land he’d never need to leave again, never think again, never wake again. 

It could all be over at last. 

A final spark of defiance had him fumbling for something that wasn’t there; reassurance, help, someone, _anyone_ , but all he found was certainty. It was much too late, he wasn’t strong enough for this and he had failed once again. 

_Please, I’m sorry._

_I tried._

_I swear, I tried my best._

He let himself fall.

The grass under his cheek was rich summer green and and it smelled like death and it was wrong somehow, so wrong, so wrong... 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Just so you know, this chapter kicked my ass big time.


End file.
